


Breaking Glass

by elmey



Series: Breaking Glass [1]
Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E.
Genre: Episode Related, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-20
Updated: 2014-10-20
Packaged: 2018-02-21 21:37:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,783
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2483312
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elmey/pseuds/elmey
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He could shut the window again and close it all off, hide it behind smooth solid glass. But there was always a weak spot; a small push right here--how easy it would be to shatter the pane, to watch the web of cracks spread until finally it all caved in on itself. Even easier to put a bullet through it and watch the glass explode, shards slicing the air, then skin, flesh and bone, leaving a trail of bright blood in their wake.</p><p>The story follows the events of "The Master's Touch Affair"</p>
            </blockquote>





	Breaking Glass

**Author's Note:**

> A big thank you to open channel d for her wonderful illustrations for this story. As well as for her help with Russian names and poetry. And for the help she'll give me with the Russian segments in Part 2 :)
> 
> You can go [here to leave kudos for her fantastic work.](http://muncle.livejournal.com/1025363.html)
> 
> Though it can stand alone, this is Volume I in what wants to be a longer work. Writing and research don't always go where we want them to go, and so Volume 2 will continue the adventure in the future.  
> The kernel of the story started three years or so ago, in an aborted remix attempt of theladyrose's The Living Daylights Affair. The remix idea is long gone, but I retained her setting of Vienna for part of this story and would be remiss in not thanking her for the original inspiration.
> 
> I also need to thank my wonderful team of anonymous writing advisers who both cheer and critique and kick my butt when they get tired of the whining :) Of course none of the bad stuff is their fault!

 

[ ](http://s983.photobucket.com/user/elmey48/media/DtC%20and%20ff/brglillo1_zpsd739663f.jpg.html)

  
           
PROLOGUE

 

Grigorii Semenov was still making minute adjustments to the bridge of his violin; his guest had finished putting away the cello and was now straightening the sheets of music that had settled all over the piano and the window bench. The zavarka had been steeping while they played, and Yelena had gone to prepare the tea tray.

"Lena, you need to practice, you were completely out of control at the end of the Andante." Semenov shouted towards the kitchen.

"She hardly has time," Illya Kuryakin said a he used the old metronome to hold down the stack of papers on the piano.   “The play is a huge success. Four performances a week."

"No reason to let our music evenings slide. How difficult can acting a few hours an evening be?"

Illya shook his head and smiled a little, it was an idle argument.

"It's your technique that's atrocious Grisha, you play as though for a funeral. Schubert didn't write it to accompany you to the grave". Yelena came back in, carrying the sugar and glasses, small tea cakes and jam that she always had a steady supply of. Illya pushed aside the pile of books on the table to make room for her to set them up next to the samovar.

"Well, let's both agree then that Illya played his part beautifully," Semenov said with a laugh.

There was a clink as Illya knocked the spoons against one of the glasses. Yelena touched his hand then and he turned to hold out her chair, ducking his head at the sight of her intimate smile.

She's only half captured him, Semenov thought as he watched Yelena's hand brush Illya's, his small smile; she won't be ready to let go until she has the other half too. He was too young for her of course, but the attraction was obvious. A young colt, all cheekbones and forehead and eyes. Semenov knew his sister, common sense would win out. But not yet. Part of Illya had remained elusive; and that was the part that interested both of them.

"I'm going to see Pyryev tomorrow," Yelena announced as she was pouring. "He's casting for a new film."

"Pyryrev?  The man who makes those tub thumping musicals about workers in the provinces? That's hardly your style little sister.  Alexandrov's films now, I like those, they would suit you."

"Don't be ridiculous, he has Orlova."

"A lovely woman my dear, but she's fifty if she's a day."

"Oh Grisha, she's a star... and she's his wife. Besides, his films are becoming quite passé. What do you think  Illyusha," Yelena gave him a mischievous look. "Aren't you tired of Alexandrov's extravaganzas?"

"They're made for an earlier generation," Illya agreed with an amused glance at his host.

Semenov raised his eyebrows then burst out laughing. "You mean for people like me. You're nothing if not blunt my young friend."

"An old man at 35. That will teach you Grisha," Yelena was laughing as well. "Illya's barely twenty, what could he see in such old fashioned things?"

"Well at the ripe old age of 26, you're getting on yourself," Semenov answered, then ducked as Yelena grabbed the nearest book from the table and threw it at him. "Temper, temper," he added as he strategically moved out of range. "Alexandrov still has power at MosFilm."

"It will by Pyryev within a year. Times are changing Grisha."

By the time they'd switched from tea to vodka and the chessboard had come out, Yelena had given up on them, retiring with the admonishment not to keep her up with too much noise. It wasn't until close to midnight that  Semenov took one last look at the chessboard, then leaned back in his chair. "I'm willing to call it a draw. Unless you see a way out of this impasse?"

Illya  shook his head and began to set up the board one more time.

"Enough for tonight." Semenov carefully divided the remainder of the vodka between their glasses and considered his guest. "I was certain you'd rise to the bait of my unguarded queen."

"The MacDonnell defense. You take extravagant risks,"  Illya said.

"And you're a very careful young man." Semenov took another cigarette from his silver case and tapped it against the lid as he watched Illya put the carved chessmen away in their box. "She's ambitious, my little sister," he said, lighting up and taking a deep drag.

Illya looked up from his task. "She's very talented," he said, his voice neutral.

"It would be better if she were not so obvious about what she wants. She makes herself vulnerable."

"It's different for actors."

"Perhaps." Semenov took another drag from his cigarette. He blew a perfect smoke ring and watched silently as it floated towards the ceiling, then turned to Illya again. "Lately I find myself wondering what it is that you want, Illyusha."

Illya carefully placed the last pawn into the box and closed the lid.

"Lena of course thinks that it's her; me, I'm not so sure," Semenov regarded him thoughtfully.

“Any man Yelena Fyodorovna favored would consider himself lucky.”

"And what about you, my young friend, " Semenov pressed.

Illya looked into his glass, then up again. "She deserves something much better than anything I could..."

Semenov cut him off with a wave of the hand. "She will do what she wants. I can have no objections. I like you Illyusha, but after all these months, I don't know you. I’m asking you what you want."

He watched as Illya stilled, folded his hands in front of him, then looked him straight in the eye. "Like all good Russians, I strive to serve the Motherland".

"A careful young man indeed," Semenov allowed amusement to creep into his voice. "It seems to me, Lieutenant Kuryakin, that you already serve."

"I follow orders, that's all, " Illya replied.

"And you want to do more."

"I _can_  do more."

Semenov noted the hint of frustration in the words. He crushed the remains of his cigarette in the ashtray; yes, he thought, he had judged correctly. "I understand you applied to study abroad."

Illya was silent for a few seconds, then the words rushed out. "I don't want to spend the rest of my life in a basement in Obninsk designing propulsion systems for submarines. That's all I'm being trained for."

"It's important work."

"We're behind. We need to bring new ideas, new knowledge back to Russia."

"And you're the man to do it?" Semonov asked .

"Yes," Illya said without hesitation. "Yes, I am."

Semenov stood up and clapped him on the shoulder. "Wait while I get another bottle, I've stashed one away."

Illya shook his head and raked his hand through his hair. "I shouldn't have any more, I've probably already..."

"Nonsense, the most important things in life are friends and vodka. You’re among friends and I  don't wish to drink alone."

When Semenov  returned to the room, armed with his prize, Illya was studying the photographs on the far wall, hands in his pockets, his back turned.   He gave the young man a knowing look. "You're wondering if you've said too much, " he said matter-of- factly as he filled their glasses again and sat down.

"I do remember who you are, Grigorii Fyodorovich" Illya turned with a gesture that encompassed everything around them.

"Oh come and sit down. This is my home and you're my guest. Nothing you say here leaves this room."

Illya gave him a sceptical look. "I'm not so young as to believe that."

Semenov laughed. "Sit down anyway Illyusha, we have things to talk about."

 

_____

 

Illya stepped into the chilly October night, pulled up his collar, pulled on his gloves. Too late for the subway; it would be a long walk back to his quarters. Semenov had offered him the sofa, an invitation he'd taken advantage of in the past. But tonight he wanted to feel the cold air brush his face, concentrate on his steps, on keeping toes and fingers warm. He needed to walk off the smoke and the liquor and the promises, calm the nervous energy that was making his heart trip too fast. _Take what you want and pay for it_ , that's what Semenov had said, closing his hand on the air and laughing. _Shape your own future_ ; well that's what he'd done. He looked up at the sky, gray clouds scudding across a waning moon. Out here it was the warmth that was the illusion, it was the cold that was real. He'd made his choice.

 

 

 

[ ](http://s983.photobucket.com/user/elmey48/media/DtC%20and%20ff/brglillo2_zps03414edc.jpg.html)

 

**~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~**

 

Breaking Glass: Lisbon

 

 _Mendon in London, Kosov in Moscow_ , the names echoed in Illya's head, hovered in front of him for a moment then shattered into a thousand pieces and slipped away. Without thinking he reached out, lost his balance and tumbled down among them; they were cold and slippery and slid from his hands as he followed them, not tumbling now but running. He was running and he was late and nothing made sense...

"Come _on_ ", Napoleon's urgent shout reached him through a long tunnel. He grabbed at that familiar sound and held on, clawing his way back from the dark. He realized he was moving, Napoleon had him by the hand and was pulling him . He blinked, they were...where? He didn't know why they were running, but it was Napoleon and so he took a deep breath and he ran.

 

**~~~~~~~~~~**

 

"Mandor?" Mr. Waverly asked from his seat in the front, watching without comment as Napoleon wrestled his partner into the back of the car.

"Dead". Napoleon answered, his voice grim as he slung himself into the seat next to Illya.

"Anything?" Waverly sent a warning glance towards the girl, who had skittered toward the door, as far away from the grimy, slumping Illya as possible.

"London and Moscow. We were too late for more."

"Anyone left down there?"

"Not anymore."

Mr. Waverly nodded and touched the driver's shoulder. The car sped away, back towards the road to Lisbon.

 

**~~~~~~~~~~**

 

Alexander Waverly signed the release papers scowling, the whole business with Mandor had left a rancid aftertaste. There never was spoon long enough to sup with the devil. Mandor dead, and already three days wasted searching through the man's papers. Mendon in London, Kosov in Moscow, two names, that's all they had, forcing his hand. Kuryakin had already been dressed when he'd come to see him at the hospital, sitting on the edge of the bed, in the full expectation that he'd be signed out. _Kosov_ , Waverly thought to himself, recapping his pen with unneccessary force, _a nasty development to be sure._

He'd asked Kuryakin if he'd known.

"I am not wholly surprised," was the careful answer.

Waverly had given him a sharp look. It was seldom that his Russian agent's twisted roots breached the surface. Kuryakin had proven adept at balancing the needs of the Rodina with his duties for UNCLE. Better than any of the Russians that followed him. But then Dima had sent the boy, and Dima was gone. "Semenov's legacy no doubt. I don't believe in ghosts," he'd almost spat the words out.

"No sir."

"What is it then, a coincidence? a practical joke ?"

Kuryakin looked down , but he said nothing.

"I need a man in Moscow. Your injuries?"

"Insignificant," the answer he already knew was coming. When he raised his eyebrows "I just need a few days, sir," Kuryakin had added.

Waverly frowned and considered. _"In a way your agent was lucky,"_ Dr. Vernek had told him in his heavily accented French, the only language they shared. _"They pumped Mr. Kuryakin so full of drugs, he was too far gone for their conditioning to take full hold. He's recovering quickly, but I want to see what residual effects there might be."_ Some luck, he thought now, he had seen the wreck that Solo had pulled out of Valandros' cell.

"Dr. Vernek wants to do a psychological evaluation before he releases you."

Kuryakin looked up then, directly at him. "My Portuguese is not... nuanced," he said. "And neither is his French" he added quickly when Waverly was about to interrupt. " I would prefer to do it in New York."

Kuryakin's stare could really be quite unnerving he'd thought as he met the unblinking eyes. It was something he'd rarely had cause to see. The message was clear, the whisper of calculation underneath here and gone in a blink. They both understood. He'd cursed inwardly with a fluency that would have surprised the man before him, then nodded, Kuryakin was clearly sharp enough to bargain. "I’ll give you your few days. You can stay here and help Mr. Solo go through Mandor's effects."

"That's enough time, sir."

Waverly returned his spectacles to their case with a frustrated snap, damning the necessity that made him sign the release, knowing it was the only thing he could do. Kosov in Moscow; Admiral Lermontov was hesitant on the phone this morning, the window of opportunity was small. There was no one in Europe he could trust with this, Beldon had seen to that. Miss Rogers was at the door with his hat and his briefcase, the flight to London was waiting. He looked at his watch, too aware these days of the constant sense of time running out. He'd have to depend on Solo to let him know if anything was really wrong with Kuryakin. Damn fool spectacle he'd made of himself, dragging his partner around by the hand.

~~~~~~~~~~  
 _  
It's dark in the room, and cooler now, the window still open as they'd left it. Napoleon wakes; Illya is half leaning against the brass headboard, one hand propped against a rail. A slight breeze moves the curtain and a trace of light flickers in his open eyes._

_"Which is worse do you think Napoleon, to remember or to forget?_

_Napoleon pulls himself up so they're shoulder to shoulder, skin brushing skin._

_"That depends on what you remember and what you forget."  
_

~~~~~~~~~~

 

Illya had pulled up close enough to the belvedere so that even from the car, the sunset views over the city down to the Tagus were spectacular. He thought of the conversation with Waverly that morning. He wondered how much the old man had seen. He was good at deception; but the old man was seldom deceived. Still, they both knew that sometimes it was useful not to see. He was glad to be driving. There was no conversation to maintain, no chasing thoughts down empty corridors. It was all just muscle memory and present tense.

He had worried a bit about Napoleon, he hadn't been pleased when he realized who his driver would be.

"I don't think this is a very good..."

He'd raised his eyebrows, daring him to say more. Napoleon sighed, his uncertainty visible. But another glance and he pressed his lips together and gave in, sliding into the back seat without another word. It wasn't until the engine was running that he spoke again. "How did you know to pick me up here?"

"Lisa told me," Illya said.

"Lisa?" Napoleon asked. "I thought she left for New York today."

"She did. I took her to the airport," Illya reached over his shoulder to close the privacy glass between front and back seats, cutting off anything else Napoleon might have to say. He pulled out into traffic with a sharp squeal of the tires, all Napoleon could do was brace himself for the ride.

He needn't have worried though, Napoleon was soon busy with the girl. They were leaning on the iron balustrade , enjoying the mild breeze here in the hills, watching the sparkle of lights that rose from the city as dusk moved in. They were taking long enough that he wished he'd brought something to read. There was a folded up morning paper on the other seat, he reached for it, but the thought of wrestling with the small print and the Portuguese language had little appeal.

He'd been cold with the drugs in his system, he was still cold, it seemed to have lodged in his bones. He rolled up his window, wrapped his arms around himself, leaned back and closed his eyes, just for a moment. Unbidden, another city rose before him; a city that smelled of winter and wood smoke and snow.

He was walking down Ogorodnaya hurrying through the bitter cold, but not really eager to arrive. He carefully avoided the patches of ice underneath the new fallen snow, ice that had been there since December and would remain at least a month more. Early evening but it had already been dark for hours; the dreariest part of the winter. His shoulders were hunched against the wind, he felt queasy, on edge; he already knew, that in spite of the promises they would make to each other, it would be his last visit there. He could feel the crunch of the snow under his feet, louder and louder the farther he walked.

There was a sudden crack shattering the sounds in his head.

"Illya."

He came to with a start and heard the noise again, sharper this time.

"Illya!"

He sat up, disoriented; Moscow disappeared as Napoleon rapped sharply on the partition between chauffeur and chauffeured. He had not noticed that his passengers had gotten back into the car.

 

**~~~~~~~~~~**

_  
"I was dreaming. I'm in a train and it's moving, sometimes it slows down when we near a station, but it never stops. I can't find my compartment, I'm in a corridor and some doors are open and some are locked. I keep going forward, thinking if I can just reach the engine I can make everything stop."_

_"Is that what you want?"_

_"I don't know, I won't know till I get there."_

_"This is night talk Illya, go back to sleep."_

_"I keep walking and everything changes, the open doors close and the ones that I open show me rooms I've forgotten I've lived in before."  
_

 

**~~~~~~~~~~**

 

The overhead light was on when Napoleon unlocked the hotel room door, it cast a harsh glare on the dark, heavy furniture, the scuffed floorboards and faded wallpaper. Illya lay sprawled across the bed, one forearm covering his eyes. The knot in Napoleon's stomach loosened and he allowed his irritation to take over.

"If you _were_ my chauffeur, I'd fire you."

There was no answer. Napoleon turned on one of the electric sconces near the door and switched off the overhead light, letting the room fall into more forgiving shadows. The Albergeria Baltazar, on a non-descript street just off Rossio Square had settled into a stolid middle age. But the old fashioned rooms were large, with an alcove for a desk and chair, separated from the rest of the room by a fading brocade sofa. It was sweltering; Illya had pulled the french windows with their dusty linen curtains shut. Napoleon cast a thoughtful eye on his unmoving partner as he went to re-open one of them and let some air into the room.

Illya's shirt was half unbuttoned, its tails still partly tucked in, as though he had given up on the effort of pulling it out of his pants. His shoes were off, one just under the bed, one overturned near the chair on which he'd tossed his jacket and tie. Several pieces of crumpled stationary lay on the floor. Frowning, Napoleon took the discarded jacket, and hung it up in the large armoire, then picked up the papers, giving the scribbled notes on them a cursory glance before tossing them in the wastebasket.

"Russian poetry. Only you Illya. The rest of us count sheep." He sat down on the edge of the bed to get a closer look at his partner.

"You smell like cheap tobacco," Illya grudgingly moved to give Napoleon more room.

You're the one who took us to _Café Luso_ " Napoleon paused. "And then left us there."

"And cheap perfume."

" _Joy_ is hardly a cheap perfume."

"You would know which perfume it was."

"I know what you're doing and it's not going to work. She helped us, she deserved her night out," Napoleon said brusquely. "Waverly arranged it, he would have done the honors himself if he were still here. _You_ disappeared with the car and left us there."

"The pleasures of playing gooseberry were starting to pall."

"I don't remember anyone asking you to," Napoleon's voice was tight.  He watched as Illya frowned and pulled himself up on his elbows.

"It was something to do. I can't just lie in bed and sleep..."

"You couldn't sleep? You fell asleep in the car. Twice."

"We were parked, I was resting my eyes," Illya huffed. "She's pretty Napoleon, but a conversationalist she is not. And I've heard all your lines before."

Napoleon raised his eyebrows. "You were listening. "

"Of course I was listening, what do you take me for."

"Obviously not a chauffeur," Napoleon said.

"I thought the evening went pretty well," Illya said dismissively.

"Did it? If you discount the fact that I had to finish half of your sentences, that you refused to remember Leslie's name, and that you disappeared with the car and left us stranded at the café. Yes, then I would say it went well. Perhaps you'd like to explain what the hell is wrong with you?"

Illya hunched his shoulders and looked away. "I am fine."

Napoleon eyed the collection of bruises and lacerations visible where Illya's shirt was gaping open, noted the tightly taped ribs. He took a deep breath, tamping down his frustration. "Don't pretend Illya, not with me." He put a hand on Illya's shoulder and felt him flinch. "I told Leslie I'd come back to the _Arguello_ for a nightcap, I stopped here to see if you're alright."

Illya shrugged off his hand. "Oh, a nightcap. Well don't let me keep you."

"I don't have to go."

Illya sighed, almost imperceptibly. "Let's play this game some other time. I'm...not at my best right now Napoleon."

Napoleon 's eyes narrowed. "What happened to I'm fine, Napoleon".

Illya slung his legs over the other side of the bed and sat up, his back to his partner. "You've been angry since you came to get me, you still are."

"I'm not angry..." Napoleon started, then stopped. In a flash, the scene in Valandros' cell came back to him. Illya with dark, empty eyes; it had terrified him for a moment, and he'd shoved the terror away with anger; at Illya, at himself, at Valandros and Mandor--it didn't matter for the few seconds it took for Illya to come back to himself and see him. The anger had burrowed deep, it returned now with a strength that almost snapped his control. " _You're too vulnerable_ ", the accusation was on the tip of his tongue, shocked at himself, he bit down on it.

Illya had stilled, waiting for him to say more, as the silence lengthened he began to button his shirt, keeping his back to Napoleon. He stood up, looked vaguely around for his shoes and jacket. "I think I had better go now", he said stiffly, avoiding Napoleon's eyes.

Napoleon watched him, frozen in place, shaken; blindingly aware of the weakness he'd almost revealed. "Illya, I..." awkwardly he got up and went to his partner. "You're not going anywhere", he said as calmly as possible. "You're staying here tonight. For god's sake, just sit down while I get us some drinks." He touched Illya's arm and felt the muscles under his hand go rigid, but he held on and Illya allowed himself to be steered towards the small sofa and pushed down.

Napoleon willed him to stay while he went to the armoire and pulled out the bottle of scotch. He found one glass on the dresser and looked uselessly for another. The room was too warm and too quiet, the noise from the street below absorbed by the heavy silence between them.

He poured a splash of scotch and drank it quickly, then poured more into the glass. He brought it to Illya, hesitated a moment, then hitched up his pant leg and sat on the arm of the couch.

He watched as his his partner held the tumbler in both hands, swirled the liquid around once, then raised the glass and emptied it. He continued to hold it loosely clasped in his hands, looking down into it, making no attempt to break the silence. Napoleon took a deep breath. "No. It wasn't you, Illya. Never you." He _bragged_ to me that he had betrayed you. Mandor was using us."

"He was using Uncle. Uncle was using him." Illya was matter of fact.

"He was using _me_." Napoleon's voice was bitter as he thought again of Mandor's words. He felt Illya's eyes on him, his dawning comprehension.

" _I was betrayed by Mandor_ , that's what Valandros wanted me to say" Illya's said slowly. " _I was betrayed by Mandor_. It would have been easy to say it and I couldn't. "

"You were shot full of drugs," Napoleon answered carefully, "and you've always been a stubborn son of a bitch".

" _I was betrayed by Mandor_. I thought perhaps it was a puzzle I had to get right, had to solve. All I could think was you can't have betrayal if you don't have trust. So how could Mandor betray me. Valandros kept shouting it over and over... " Illya's voice trailed away.

"Illya..."

Illya carefully put his glass on the floor then rubbed his hands over his face. "It's alright Napoleon, I just have a headache."

Napoleon gave him a sharp look. " I thought they'd keep you at the hospital a few more days."  
         
"Did you? Mr. Waverly came to see me this morning."

Napoleon nodded, he had heard. It was, he'd told himself earlier, why he had not really questioned Illya's early release. He'd refused to speculate what Waverly was playing at, but seeing Illya now, he began to wonder. Kosov, the thought came to him. Mendon in London, Kosov in Moscow. "He wants you in Moscow," he said, suddenly uneasy.

"Who else is he going to send?"

"Lebedev, Ovetschkin, Saalonen... any of them could go."

Illya's look of disdain was answer enough.

"This is ridiculous, look at yourself, ribs taped up, ankle sprained, your... brain apparently more scrambled than usual. You're in no shape to do anything."

"I told you, I am fine."

"Stop saying that," Napoleon's frustration came out close to a shout. Illya flinched and turned away from him, putting a hand to his ear.

Something clicked for Napoleon. "Do you _know_ Kosov? "

There was a long silence, then Illya turned back to face him. "I forgot. I forgot I was supposed to pick you up at the taverna."

Napoleon brushed the words aside. "Do you know Kosov?" There was a note of command in his voice now.

Napoleon watched Illya's eyes stray around the room, cross his arms, as though holding his secrets in. He waited for his answer.

"Vienna," Illya finally said. "The supposed defector."

Napoleon wrinkled his brow at the change of subject.

"Vienna in '62."

Ah... Napoleon remembered a body; the face barely glimpsed. Three shots, a splash of blood spreading across a man's back. Not the first man he'd killed without knowing his name, nor the last whose face he'd forget. "The defector's name was Kosov," it came back to him now.

"No. That wasn't his real name. Kosov was...  a code name he liked to use," Illya answered, hesitating slightly.

Napoleon noted the hesitation. "A code name for what? That who liked to use?"

“Where do you use ‘John Smith’?   Semenov used it. Grigorii Sememov ran a counter intelligence cell inside the...”  Illya’s voice tapered  off uncertainly, as though he were trying to untangle what could and couldn’t be said.

“In Vienna you told me you'd once worked for Kosov, for whoever that person was,” Napoleon felt his way into what could easily be a minefield.

Illya had fallen silent again, eyes turned inward.

“Illya.”  Napoleon put a hand on his arm.

“I _wanted_ Paris, Napoleon, I _wanted_ Cambridge. Semenov was the way to get it."

Napoleon hid his surprise. His careful partner, who had learned early to calculate need against want, cost against his ability to pay. He wondered, and in the end he decided to ask: "And what did Semenov want in return?"

Illya shrugged. "He wanted a scientist, for future consideration he said. And he wanted a spy.   He held the reins lightly, he just reminded me now and then that he was holding the reins. "

"What kind of reminders?" Napoleon was surprised by the sharpness of his own voice.

"Oh Napoleon. No innocents were corrupted, no great state secrets were exchanged. We were best at cannibalizing our own." Illya's voice was light, the contempt turned inward, barely noticeable.

“You were very young,” Napoleon said.

“I was never that young.” Matter of fact.

"And what about Kosov?"

Illya leaned his head against the sofa's back and stared at the ceiling. "Semenov is dead. You shot him in Vienna."

“But now it seems, there is a Kosov alive and well and working for Thrush."

Illya nodded.

"You told Waverly about Semenov."

Illya gave him a scornful look. "I didn't have to."

"Does Moscow know?"

"They know. Everyone knows."

 _I didn't know_ , Napoleon thought, but before he could formulate another question, Illya abruptly stood up from the sofa and made his way to the window alcove, turned his back on Napoleon and looked out. The room was in shadows there, just enough light came in from outside to lay a pale wash on his white shirt and pick up the gleam from his hair. Napoleon watched him and thought about what he'd just heard.

"What is it you're not telling me, Illya?" he asked quietly.

 

**~~~~~~~~~~**

_  
"Do you know what Grigorii used to tell me? Take what you want, and pay for it."_

_Napoleon smiles in the dark and digs his elbow lightly into Illya. "He sounds like Sister Carmelita at Holy Cross. Well, she had her own way of saying it. Quien quiere celeste, que le cueste."_

_"Heaven," Illya half laughs "Semenov never talked about heaven."_

_"Well he wouldn't would he? He just didn't think big enough, being a godless communist and all."_

_Illya's return elbow is not quite as light.  
_

 

**~~~~~~~~~~**

 

Illya looked down at the the street below: from the square around the corner spilled the sounds of bits and pieces of life, pedestrians and cars, strolling couples and laughing young men; a warm summer night, just out of reach. He could shut the window again and close it all off, hide it behind smooth solid glass. But there was always a weak spot; a small push right here--how easy it would be to shatter the pane, to watch the web of cracks spread until finally it all caved in on itself. Even easier to put a bullet through it and watch the glass explode, shards slicing the air, then skin, flesh and bone, leaving a trail of bright blood in their wake.

_"Surprised to see me Illyusha?" the familiar voice was amused. "Did you think I wouldn't collect my debts? " Semenov was taunting him, flaunting his cleverness in bringing him to Vienna, aiming the Makharov at his chest. He felt Napoleon's presence before Semenov had an inkling that death had found him. The Special barked three times, he heard glass shatter and watched as Semenov pitched forward, blood seeping from his back. He looked up. The past was dead, his future was standing in front of him: this partnership, this friendship, whatever this connection was they had between them._

"What is it you’re not telling me?"

Napoleon's question broke into his reverie and he was back in the present, holding on tightly to a glass door, to what he had. He and Napoleon... They trusted each other with their lives, their bodies at times; but their secrets... no, he'd learned too early how to protect himself, lessons hard won.

He moved away from the window, leaned back against the wall next to it, keeping himself in the shadows. He crossed his arms to hide the betraying twitch of his hands and tried to order his jumbled thoughts.

"Before you came back tonight, I was thinking about Vienna. About what happened that night." He could feel the subtle change in the intensity of Napoleon's attention, saw the way he leaned forward to listen, the way it took a beat for him to respond.

"It was five years ago," Napoleon said carefully.

"We were supposed to make contact with the defector during a cultural exchange concert--what an appropriate place to exchange loyalties..." Illya's voice trailed off. "An orchestra from Bratislava. I'd heard them before, not very skilled, but enthusiastic. It was misty out, the traffic was bad and I'd been delayed, I was was rushing up the stairs to the mezzanine when the music started. They were playing Mozart. I remember that. The Prague. But for the life of me," he added as casually as he could. "I can't remember the melody. How can I remember all that and not remember the melody?"  

Napoleon's eyes were on him. "Is that all you don't remember?" he asked warily.

"It's such a small thing," Illya said. "But it makes me wonder. What other small things might I have forgotten?"

Uncomfortable under Napoleon's worried gaze now, he pushed himself off the wall and went to the small desk to pick up one of the crumpled sheets of paper. "Do you know what I was trying to do?"

Napoleon shook his head.  
     
Illya fingered the paper then picked it up and threw it towards the waste basket in disgust. He walked stiffly back to the sofa and dropped down, shoulders hunched, staring at the floor.

"If you want me to understand you _droog moy_ , you're going to have to talk to me," Napoleon said.

"It's cold in here," Illya rubbed his arms, wishing he had his jacket.

He started at the touch of hands on his shoulders. He had not noticed Napoleon move behind the sofa. He tried to draw away but Napoleon's hands held him, strong and warm, massaging tense muscles until Illya finally shivered and then allowed himself to relax into the hold.

"The apartment on Ogorodnaya was the first place I'd ever been that was always warm. I liked it there. We used to practice on Mondays, Grigorii and Lena and I..."

Napoleon's hands stayed where they were, but Illya could feel his grip tighten.

"I'd almost forgotten that, I don't know how I could have. But it all comes back after a while doesn't it." Illya kept his voice cool. "And such small things. After all, I haven't forgotten anything I _need_ to know. I remember the weight of my gun in its holster. I remember how to sight my target, I know where to aim to kill. I remember the feel of a bone breaking beneath my fist. I remember how long to press your carotid artery to make you pass out, how hard to press it to kill you. The rest .." he shrugged.

"No. That's _not_ all you remember," Napoleon said a little too quickly, taken aback by the path of the conversation.

Illya gave a short laugh. "Oh, there's much more. I'm pretty sure I can still pick locks, set explosions, climb into second story windows. So you see, there's nothing to worry about. "  
         
"Illya. The drugs aren't totally out of your system yet, it takes time, you should know that by now. I'll help you remember." Napoleon's voice was confident, but his grip hadn't eased.

"How? Whistling the music into my ear?"

"If you think that will help..."

"No. Yes...I don't know. You can't carry a tune to save your life."

"I'll go out and buy you a stereo tomorrow, all the records you want."

"I'd like to see you explain that to accounting."

"You need rest, not to be playing chauffeur around Lisbon. Waverly should never have signed you out of the hospital, I don't know what he was thinking of."

"Kosov in Moscow." Illya said impatiently. "He was thinking of Kosov. He knew we can't wait that long. I just need a few more days, and I'll be fine."

"I don't know how you fooled him, but you're not fine."

"I'm sorry Napoleon, it's this headache. I just need some sleep, that's all."

Napoleon reached to tuck an errant blond strand of hair behind Illya's ear. "Don't..."

The loud jangle of the telephone made them both jump.

"Leslie" Napoleon said. "I forgot about Leslie."

 

**~~~~~~~~~~**

 

Illya stretched out full length on the sofa, his head resting on the low arm. The pounding in his head had lessened, he could hear Napoleon's voice soothing the girl, he didn't need to hear the words. He found himself wishing that Napoleon would stay here this evening. _Foolish and careless_ he said to himself, then shook his head ruefully at the familiarity of that thought. He lifted his head to make room when Napoleon came back and hitched his leg up on the sofa arm next to him, then he leaned back again, his cheek resting against Napoleon's thigh.

"I told Leslie you weren't feeling well, and I should stay, " Napoleon said.  "I promised we'd take her to breakfast to make up for leaving her alone tonight."

"You take her, I'll have room service."

"Oh no, she'll have two good looking men on her arm tomorrow morning, it's the least we can do."

Illya closed his eyes.  He wasn't up to an argument. Tomorrow would be soon enough to refuse. He was almost comfortable lying here, not thinking much, Napoleon warm against him.  He  wanted that warmth now.  He himself had little heat to give, but that had never bothered Napoleon. Tonight he wanted to  drift in Napoleon's heat.

Without conscious thought he reached up and tugged on Napoleon's arm, and when Napoleon bent over him he pulled him down to meet his mouth, and let his hands make clear his intentions.

 

**~~~~~~~~~~**

  
_"Ты - отступник: за остров зеленый_  
 _Отдал, отдал родную страну,_  
 _Наши песни, и наши иконы,_  
 _И над озером тихим сосну.*_  
 _  
"I was always on the train that was leaving. I never stayed and I never paid."_

_"What is it you think you have to pay for?"_

_"My escape," Illya says._

_Napoleon slides down until he's lying flat, pulls Illya with him. Illya burrows into his warmth, and he finds himself holding him, stroking his hair, until he feels him relax into sleep._

 

**~~~~~~~~**

 

The faint gray light coming from the window was enough to see  the outlines of the room  when Napoleon woke.    The air had cooled, the morning mist from the harbour had brought a touch of chill.  He got up and felt the cool wood of the floor under his bare feet as he padded to the bathroom.  When he was done, he grabbed a robe from the hook on the door  to cover his bare skin and moved to the window, thinking to close it.

He  wasn't  sleepy and thought longingly of coffee, but he wanted to let Illya rest. He watched the early morning movement in the street below,  his mind  far away.    He  had not thought of Vienna for a long time, but now the memories came back sharp and clear. Illya had been in New York just over a year then, they'd been partnered more and more often, and had clicked in a way  not quite acknowledged yet by either of them.    He'd been laid up in the hospital in London, bruised and battered by a leap from a speeding car when Illya disappeared on  a need-to-know mission.   

It was Morton who dropped the information that the defector had insisted on Illya as his contact.   Napoleon never questioned his conviction that it meant trouble,  that need-to-know had no bearing on him.   A few phone calls later, and he had the information he needed.  The rush to Vienna had been a blur even then, but  his luck held  and he'd  made it  to the to the little music shop across from the Opera just in time.

He was crossing the street when the lights at the back of the shop went on and through the plate glass window he saw Illya crouched at the top of the stairs, his eyes on the gun pointed at him. He knew the exact moment Illya felt his presence, just as he knew the moment that Semenov started to pull the trigger--and he was faster. Three shots, praying he'd calculated the deflection angle correctly, the trajectory of the flying glass. Illya standing up, watching Semenov fall. "Napoleon," was all he'd said, unsurprised. Their eyes met; it was clear to both of them then, they had found something in this partnership, they recognized what they could be together.

The room was a bit lighter now, and he turned from the window to look at his partner, still sleeping, sprawled on his back, head half turned into the arm he'd thrown over his head.

It was seldom that Illya looked so abandoned; even in sleep he usually curved in on himself, as self-contained as he was when awake. How many hotel rooms had Napoleon returned to after a careless night out, and, he admitted to himself, they were often careless; to find Illya sleeping in the room, the most solid thing in his life, always there. A need he could finally acknowledge.

He sat down on the edge of the bed, the slight movement of the mattress causing Illya to roll to his side. He thought of last night--of trains and poems and things that didn't fit, and knew there was something that he had missed. It was unlike his partner to reveal a weakness willingly... They had been talking about Semenov. What had Illya said? Deflections and diversions. He expelled his breath when he understood. Illya had thrown out one secret to keep another.

And then he'd pulled him close and distracted him, and he'd allowed it. _Allowed_ , he almost snorted. He'd welcomed it; welcomed the rare occurrence of Illya reaching for him, welcomed his need and his trust; welcomed the distraction from a conversation too uncomfortable to continue.

What a pair we are, he thought, living in shadows and pretending not to, hard and secret down to our bones. But not quite hard enough. _I arranged it Mr. Solo_. He had been consumed with fury at Mandor's words. _I'm going to repay you for this Mr. Mandor, personally_. Ashes in his mouth. He thought about the imperfect care they gave each other and wondered when it had stopped being enough.

The sun had risen now, and the room was getting warmer, it was just as well he'd forgotten to close the window. Semenov was the only trace he'd ever seen of Illya's past. He'd always known that his partner buried his ghosts in unmarked graves, and so he had filed what he'd found away again. Kosov in Moscow. They'd add one more ghost to that graveyard. He'd make sure of it. And then they would see.

"We have things to talk about droog moy," he said quietly. "You're going to tell me what you want, Illya. Maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow. But one day soon, I'm going to ask you what you want."

 

**~~~~~~~~**

 

 

[ ](http://s983.photobucket.com/user/elmey48/media/DtC%20and%20ff/brglillo3_zps0e501017.jpg.html)

 

**~~~~~~~~~~**

 

Illya squinted at the menu, his eyes following his fingers down the list. The morning sun bounced off the blue and white tiles decorating the terrace of the Hotel Arguello and the menu in front of him reflected the glare. He adjusted his sunglasses and turned his chair to look down towards the port. Napoleon, a slightly too small straw trilby pushed back on his head, was out to charm this morning, consulting grandly with the waiter, and amusing Leslie with his exaggerated Americanisms. He'd been the early morning recipient of that charm, his determination to breakfast in their room overridden before he could even voice it.

Illya let the sound of Napoleon's chatter wash through him, keeping his mind empty, letting shards of memory float in and out of his thoughts. He was unaccustomed to dwelling in the past and rarely thought of the boy who chose as best he could the road that led here. He just as seldom thought about what he was now, sitting here in this chair, arms crossed, legs stretched out in front of him. A man with a shoulder holster under his coat, the gun a familiar comfort.

The slightly acrid scent of orange made him turn his head; the girl was peeling a small clementine from the bowl on their table. She gave him a tentative smile and offered him a section of the bright fruit. He could feel Napoleon watching him. He smiled back at her and took the fruit. "Thank you...Leslie" he said, giving his partner an amused look. Napoleon relaxed, and Illya turned back to the view, Leslie already forgotten.

They were two of a kind, he and Napoleon. He had his music, his reading, his degrees--camouflage just like Napoleon's flirtations and clothes and charm. The outer skin that allowed them to sit in restaurants and hide among people whose lives remained beyond their reach. The knowledge burned for a moment, but he was what he was, not what he'd imagined he might be, not what the world saw him as. There was one person who understood that. When he'd first met Napoleon he'd reminded him of Semenov. Charming, reckless, self-centered. But Napoleon's facade shielded an idealism that still surprised him at times and a need that sometimes scared him.

He looked down at the river, rippling brightly in the sun. Fragments of light bounced up off the water, combined, faded and re-combined; hovered in the air long enough to begin forming patterns in front of his eyes, patterns he almost recognized; notes, forming a melody he almost heard. They'd laughed together so often just for the sheer pleasure of being alive. It was the laughter they shared that he wanted to remember, not the death and the blood.

It was what he wanted Napoleon to remember as well.

He would go back and he'd put the past to rest. After that, if Napoleon still wanted he'd let him ask his question. He'd be able to give him an answer then.

 **~~~~~     ~~~~~**      **~~~~~**

 

_*You are an apostate: for a green island/_  
 _You betrayed, betrayed your native land,/_  
 _Our song and our icons/_  
 _And the pine above the quiet lake.”_

_Anna Akhmatova_  
 _Untitled: 1917_  
 _Addressed to her lover Boris Anrep when he left Russia for England, never to return_


End file.
